e x p l o s i o n
by overchay
Summary: Slightly AU. Vaguely implied NG slash. 'Neatly combed hair, perfectly ironed dress shirts, and a professional outlook was what took precedent in his life. It all made him feel cold.'


This isn't something he could fix. There wasn't some specific solution out there, information buried away in some obscure research project that had been tried and tested true. His problems couldn't just disappear and never come back. It wasn't as if he could rewind time to take him back, back before the explosion in the lab ever occurred, before he froze. It just wasn't possible. The explosion started this all.

Explosion. The very word still causes his hands to tremble. His stomach rebels and he goes cold, a numb feeling spreading throughout him slowly. He has to numb himself. There would be nothing left if he couldn't. Sometimes he feels like he's going to break from making himself so cold. People noticed a change, eventually. Greg was gone, replaced by CSI Sanders. Neatly combed hair, perfectly ironed dress shirts, and a professional outlook was what took precedent in his life. It all made him feel cold.

Explosion. He hates the sound of that word. The sound reminds him of the shattering glass, the sickening thud his body sounded out when he was thrown to the floor. The footsteps around him, the sound of the ambulance carrying him out of the lab. His ears ache, sometimes, when he lies on his sweat-soaked sheets after waking from another nightmare. The sound from the accident is all he can hear in his dreams.

Explosion. He can hardly remember it, but it haunts him. He didn't have the chance to see much of anything other than breaking glass and flashing lights. But he relives the moment every day. He couldn't even turn on a burner without clenching his teeth, closing his eyes, and pausing a moment to calm his nerves. He remembers seeing Sara's stunned expression, Catherine's guilty looks, Warrick's halfway disinterested appearance. He remembers the way Grissom's face looked when he caught him with unsteady hands. Disappointed. He was disappointed in Greg because he couldn't keep himself under control. He can still see it perfectly. The one and only think he can't picture is Nick's face. Nick's expression. Nick never bothered to even act like he cared.

Explosion. He smells burning plastic when he thinks of it, and when he smells burning plastic, he thinks of it. His chest tightens and he can't breathe properly when it happens, and he feels as if he should be trying to breathe, at the very least. It hurts too much to try. Trying taps into his icy shell and it makes him vulnerable. And then he smells the burn, the antiseptic hospital smell, Catherine's overpowering perfume when she came to tell him it was something she had done, however accidental.

Explosion. It still hurts. His back, that is. The wounds from the glass that had been embedded into his flesh took some time to heal and the longer it took, the less effective the IV drip, of whatever painkiller used on him, seemed to be. His back is scarred up from those fragments and every night he rolls onto his stomach, shirt off and sheets pooled around his waist so that he doesn't feel anything. He doesn't like to feel. Phantom pains haunt him and he tries hard to stay away from heavy painkillers, but it's so tempting. And they help make him cold- numb and unfeeling. He feels like ice.

Explosion. Every moment that Greg had lain awake in that hospital bed, he spent praying that Nick would appear and offer some comforting Nickisms, just something awkwardly put, but heartfelt. But he never showed and that drove another icy stake into his heart, hardening him a little more.

Explosion. That's what happened when they pulled Nick out of that plexiglass coffin. An explosion. And Greg knew it was going to happen. He knew that it was going to blow and he couldn't bare to watch it. Yet, for some unexplainable reason, he did. He watched the dirt flying into the air, Nick's body being pulled out of the encasement by a rope. There was no broken glass, but the sound of it, the dirt blown up and the lights of the ambulance all crashed down on his icy shell. It was breaking, and he was finding it harder and harder to keep himself together. He stayed long enough to watch as Nick was carried into the back of the ambulance and the doors closed. After that, he fled. Greg didn't want anyone to see his icy exterior cracked open.

Explosion. He doesn't know if Nick's going to feel the same way that he always does when he gets flashbacks. Greg is counting on Nick being stronger than himself, though. Nick is strong enough to get through this, the trauma of it all, and end up the same old Nicky Stokes that everyone in the department seemed to care about. Greg just hopes that the explosion, the dirt, the ants, the lights, the box doesn't haunt him for the rest of his life. He prays that Nicky doesn't turn cold.

Because what happened to Nick exploded through Greg's thick outer layers of ice, keeping him cold and numb. It was cracked open and he isn't sure if he'll be able to survive much longer, thawing out like this. Greg spent the entire night sobbing until conciousness left him, worn out from the much-needed expulsion of emotion. That was last night.

Tonight, Greg didn't show up for work, he didn't drop in at the hospital to see how Nick was doing. Tonight, Greg is contemplating whether it's really worth the pain of being able to feel again, or not. He couldn't fix things for Nick. He can't even fix things for himself. He's broken and thawing and that scares him. He's not sure he can do this. He's resigned himself to fail and it's all he's counting on if he tries.

Greg opens his medicine cabinet and pulls out a mostly unused bottle of painkillers. He drops a few pills into his palm and takes them dry. He doesn't know the dosage and he doesn't care. He figures it's either enough to numb the pain for at least a few more hours, or kill him. He doesn't much care which one it is, and he finds something wrong with the fact that he finds nothing wrong with that just as he's curling up in bed. Doors locked. Curtains closed. Lights off.


End file.
